


Homesick

by Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer



Series: Malcolm Bright In DC [1]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Affection Starved Malcolm Bright, Ainsley Is Her Father's Girl, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Autistic Malcolm Bright, Canon Compliant, Daddy Issues, Doctors, Emotional Hurt, FBI Agent Malcolm Bright, Family Dinners, Father Figures, Father-Son Relationship, Fear of doctors, Gen, Gil Arroyo Acting as Malcolm Bright's Parental Figure, Gil Arroyo is Malcolm Bright's Parent, Good Parent Gil Arroyo, Good Parent Jessica Whitly, Hiding Medical Issues, Hospitals, Hurt Malcolm Bright, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jackie Arroyo Acting as Malcolm Bright's Parental Figure, Jackie Arroyo Is Malcolm Bright's Parent, Kidnapped Malcolm Bright, Kidnapping, Malcolm Bright Gets a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Malcolm Bright is a Mess, Martin Whitly's A+ Parenting, Medical Conditions, Medical Trauma, Mommy Issues, Mother-Son Relationship, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Parental Gil Arroyo, Poor Malcolm Bright, Pre-Canon, Protective Gil Arroyo, Torture, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Malcolm Bright, but we love him, cardiac arrest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27884356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer/pseuds/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer
Summary: "You're in the hospital, sir," one of the nurses inform him. Her voice is soft but almost frantic, almost afraid. His head swims as he tries to make sense of it, clutching the bed and trying to calm the tremors wracking his body. Then she goes on to say, "you went into cardiac arrest."
Relationships: Ainsley Whitly & Jessica Whitly, Gil Arroyo & Ainsley Whitly, Gil Arroyo & Jessica Whitly, Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Gil Arroyo/Jackie Arroyo, Jackie Arroyo & Ainsley Whitly, Jackie Arroyo & Jessica Whitly, Jackie Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Jessica Whitly & Luisa, Malcolm Bright & Ainsley Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Jessica Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Luisa, Malcolm Bright & Original Character(s)
Series: Malcolm Bright In DC [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2075061
Comments: 26
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

The first time it happens, Malcolm winds up in a hospital.

He's not sure how, or why, or _what_ , even, caused it. He's not even sure how he ended up waking up screaming in a hospital room. He'd been bunking with a few… ah… buddies of his, though it was with great reluctance that he'd fallen asleep. He went to bed when they did, twelve-thirty sharp so he could get up for work early and go through his routines, but it didn't quite work for him. The first few nights, he woke up in a cold sweat at about… four in the morning, and then couldn't get back to sleep after that for another two hours. He tried, he truly did, but maybe he just wasn't meant to adjust to normal things. Maybe he's not meant for _this_.

The fourth night, Malcolm feels something off when he's sleeping. He remembers the nightmare vividly - more like a flashback, really, a memory of one of his last visits with Martin, but wrong. The whole scene is painted in red, like blood, and Malcolm finds he can't breathe or speak or hear. He recognizes the familiar hum of Martin's voice and for a second it's almost comforting - and he hates himself for that fact - but then it gets louder, and louder, and louder. And the Surgeon is screaming, and Malcolm wants to scream but he can't, and the bars of the cell are merging together until there's only four walls without even a door closing them in together. All he can see through the red - which is liquid, almost, blurry and his vision just won't clear no matter how many times he blinks - is Martin, and his smile, and that look in his eyes, and then…

And then his chest goes tight and he can feel his heart pounding against his ribcage, an erratic, frantic beat. Martin presses forward against him, a hand against his chest, and shoves it in.

And he wakes up in the hospital, screaming bloody murder, and is sedated again almost instantly. But he wakes up screaming again only hours later, and this time it takes five nurses, a doctor and a security guard to lay him back down onto the bed with someone chanting a steady mantra of 'it's okay, it's okay, it's okay' in his ear for him to calm down without being sedated again. It takes even longer for him to calm down enough to be able to ask what's going on.

"You're in the hospital, sir," one of the nurses inform him. Her voice is soft but almost frantic, almost afraid. His head swims as he tries to make sense of it, clutching the bed and trying to calm the tremors wracking his body. Then she goes on to say, "you went into cardiac arrest."

He's too shocked to respond with anything more than a whimper before he's out again.

When he wakes up, it's slower and groggier and he knows immediately that he's drugged, but it's the first time in a long time that he hasn't woken up screaming or crying or both, so he'll take it. There's a nurse stationed by his bedside with a remote in her hand, her thumb centered lightly over a big red button. But when she sees how slow he's waking up, she discards it immediately and jumps up to make her way over to him without any hint of the fear he vaguely remembers her displaying toward him before. His vision - and his mind - are swimming by the time he manages to lift his gaze to her, swaying though he's laying down. She touches his shoulder, a gentle, brief contact before retracting her hand to turn a dial on a machine beside him, which he assumes is the medicine he's hooked up to. The dial… it must be morphine…

"Cardiac arrest," he slurs before he can stop himself, and her fingers freeze over the dial as she glances back at him. Her eyebrows furrow, concerned, as he struggles to lift his gaze to her. "Cardiac arrest," he repeats. "I went into cardiac arrest-? I- I'm only- I'm only…" He trails off for a moment, fear and panic gripping him as he struggles to remember his own age. Fucking drugs. "I'm twenty-five," he breathes, looking back up at her. "I- I'm only twenty-five, what- why did-"

The nurses purses her lips and frowns at him. "... we're not entirely sure, sir."

Malcolm stares at her for a moment. It has yet to register why he's here - of course, not the cardiac arrest part, but the transportation part. He could just ask, he knows, but he wants to give himself a chance to figure it out first. So he struggles with himself for a good few minutes, runs through the scenario over and over and over again in his head. His buddies must have brought him, but he hasn't seen them around… so they most likely didn't stick around. At the very least, right _now_ , they're gone. They're gone and he's alone, which he understands, but it almost stings in a way because right then, more than ever, he kind of wants someone to be there with him.

His hands twitch slightly against the bed, curling loosely into whatever fabric is below him as he turns his head to look around. The steady beeping of the monitor increases a little as he takes in his surroundings, the undoubtedly familiar sight of a hospital, but he doesn't notice nor care. He's alone here with doctors, with medicines and sedatives being pumped into his system, and a cold weight settles in his stomach the moment that registers. Doctors. He doesn't trust them. But then, what is trust, when it comes to him? He'll probably never _trust_ anybody again, really.

"I need…" _To leave_ , he needs to leave, but he doesn't have any way to do that and he doesn't even know if his mind is clear enough and he doesn't even know if they would _let_ him leave. So instead he opts for something else, something maybe they'd grant him because it's not nearly as dangerous as him trying to just up and leave on his own, and says, "I need… a phone."

She's happy to oblige, giving him the hospital room phone. But before she does, she strikes the killing blow and everything makes sense; "Sir, I'm going to need you to tell me your name."

They hadn't even stuck around for that. They'd dumped him at the hospital and left.

Mid cardiac arrest.

It's chilling, and it hurts, and his heart is in his throat and he knows he's never going to be able to sleep right again in that fucking _apartment_ , but he struggles to look past it for a moment. They'd brought him to the hospital - and despite it all, he tries to see that as a good thing, because who knows what might have happened otherwise? - and, yes, they'd left, but they were busy people, right? It's not a big deal, and he doesn't want to make it a big deal. He's tired. So, so tired, right now, and he just wants to go home. So he looks up and flashes the nurse the biggest, most convincing smile he can muster and introduces himself, "Malcolm. Malcolm Bright." Then turns his attention to the phone and dials a number slowly with shaking fingers.

It goes to voicemail, and Malcolm must be particularly sensitive because of the drugs, because he almost wants to break down right then and there. His fingers glide over the numbers on the phone for a moment, hands trembling - but he supposes that's a given - and tries to resist the urge to call someone he knows back home. Like his mother, or… oh, god, _Gil._ He wants to call Gil right then more than he thinks he ever has, but he knows that he shouldn't. That he's working, that he's certainly not going to come all this way just because Malcolm's in a hospital. Well - no, he would, and Malcolm knows that. He knows Gil would cross the entire fucking _world_ to come to him if he were in trouble. But he also knows that he's done so much for him, _so_ much for him over the years, and Malcolm knows he deserves a break from… everything that he is. So after a moment of contemplation, he calls his partner. He picks up after about three rings.

"Yeah?" His voice is strained and tired and Malcolm winces, realizing he didn't ask for the time. He doesn't know what time it is, but he knows damn well he just woke his partner up. And the guy already doesn't like him as it is. The man breathes in and steels himself, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment and cursing himself, but he's too far in now anyway.

"Hey," he greets, taking a breath and watching the nurse retreat. "It's Malcolm."

He tries not to take the quiet groan on the other end of the line too personally. "Bright?" His partner grounds out through what sounds like clenched teeth, and Malcolm winces about as apologetically as he can manage. It's easier to be apologetic, he decided that a long time ago. It's easier to act guilty, to feel guilty, than to let himself be annoyed with everyone around him who can't seem to stop finding reasons to be annoyed at _him_. It's easier to feel like an inconvenience when they treat him like one than it is to call them out for it and admit that it's wrong. It's easier, because he can almost convince himself sometimes that he doesn't care. "What th' hell're you callin' me for? S'five in th'damn mornin'."

"Right. Yeah. I'm, uh, I'm sorry about that," Malcolm apologizes, and he's almost thrown off by how genuine he sounds even to his own ears. He's not sorry, not really, but he wishes he was. He's hurt, and he's angry, and he's scared - but he's not sorry. "But, ah- I'm in the hospital, and-"

"What?" Now his partner sounds awake, concerned seemingly out of obligation. Malcolm toys with his bottom lip again, clenching his teeth down over it. "Th'fuck're you- are you okay?"

"Yes." Malcolm pauses, eases out a breath through his teeth. "I need you to come get me."

There's a moment of silence, and Malcolm presses his eyes shut and goes through his list of contacts in his head again. He can practically feel his heart swell and break in one swift motion in those split seconds of hesitation, the realization that he truly doesn't mean anything to anybody here and he never has, and he was never going to. And maybe that was just his life; maybe he was never meant to mean anything. But it still hurts, _god_ does it hurt, to be laying in a hospital bed realizing he truly doesn't have a friend to his name right now, not even one damn person who will come get him from the hospital after he goes into fucking _cardiac arrest._

He's angry. And he's _hurt._

His partner sighs, and he couldn't sound more inconvenienced by this if he tried. "Yeah." There's no relief accompanying the word, but he surprises himself with an odd rush of guilt. Still, he lets it stay, allows it to make home in his chest and writhe around in his stomach for a while because it's easier to handle than the anger, and Malcolm knows he can't really handle _that_ right now. He looks toward the monitor beside him, and the beeping - fast but steady - almost drowns out his partner's next words, "I'm comin' to get you, but I swear, Bright, if this is somethin' stupid…"

The line goes dead. Malcolm's not sure which one of them hung up.

Next, he deals with the doctors. He's tired - so damn tired - but he eases through their conversations and explains why he thinks he should leave, against medical advice, with a smile on his face and a calm tone. It's not an easy feat and he feels like a goddamn ticking time bomb just waiting to go off, but they only issue a few warnings before they let the matter drop. It's kind of funny, doctors and nurses and people he doesn't really like, and people who don't know him - they seem to care, right then, a little more than the people in his life who _should._ Malcolm doesn't think he'll ever get over that, but he's too exhausted at the moment to be able to care. At the very least, he's too exhausted to feel anything other than sadness, anger and resignation. He'll deal with it later. Maybe he just needs to get better at the whole socialization thing.

He's also informed that he's been in the hospital for about a day, but he's already come to that conclusion as it is, considering he knows damn well he's been in the hospital, in and out of consciousness, for a hell of a lot more than a few hours. But he only nods when they tell him this, without the strength to let them know that he's already worked it all out in his head. Then he fills out the forms to leave and walks outside to wait for his partner. It's cold, but he doesn't mind; he tilts his head back to look up at the sky, feeling the freezing air against his face, and waits until he hears the familiar rumble of the Cadillac and his partner honks to get his attention.

"So what the fuck happened, kid?" He prompts as soon as Malcolm climbs into the passenger seat. And he's tired. He's fucking tired. But, funnily enough, he's too tired to snap. He's too tired to feel much of anything now aside from gratitude; the guy didn't have to come, and for a while there Malcolm had almost thought he wasn't going to. So he allows his irritation to fizzle away.

"Cardiac arrest, apparently," he explains, and shrugs at the look he's given. "Yeah, I know…" He trails off for a moment, thinking back to his dream, the pressure on his chest, the terror he felt.

"Jeez…" His partner whistles, low and steady. Malcolm closes his eyes, lowering his head and catching a rush of the hot air from one of the vents as his partner pulls off again. "Where to?" The man asks after a moment, dialing down the volume on the radio even though it's not that loud, as if he's afraid he'll miss Malcolm's response. He almost wants to laugh, if he's honest. Where else would he be going? Home. Home, though he's unsure whether that's what it is, but at the moment it's the only one he's got. With those people who couldn't care less about him.

"Back to the apartment," he finally breathes, bringing his hands up to his face to brush his hair back. He digs his fingers in a little, forcing another breath through his teeth, and opens his eyes. The silence is heavy, and his partner's shoulders are tense and he knows the man is tired and once again he feels guilty, beyond his control, so he mumbles, "thanks. Sorry, I know this is…" He doesn't finish, doesn't need to. He doesn't really mean it, anyway; he's guilty, but not sorry. But he wants his partner to _think_ that he's sorry, that he feels _oh_ so bad for _inconveniencing_ him. There's guilt, and there's _guilt_. He feels bad, but he doesn't know whether he feels bad for calling the guy to come and get him in the first place, or because he was the only one _to_ call.

"Don't worry about it." His partner's tone suggests there's _much_ to worry about, but Malcolm's too tired to deal with that. "So, cardiac arrest, huh? You been pushin' yourself too hard, Bright?" There's a short pause, in which Malcolm responds with a twitch of his shoulders, barely a shrug. Then his partner sighs, clears his throat, and adds, "maybe you should take a bit of a break. You know, head back to New York and spend a little time with your family. You've got vacation days."

"Uh, no. No, that's okay." His family will know something's off. Jessica knows when he lies to her, Ainsley would beat the truth out of him, and Gil will take one look at him and _know._

His partner sighs, but doesn't push it.

Malcolm falls silent, stays silent until they reach the apartment. He thanks the man again as he slips out of the car, takes a few steps toward the building and turns back, but his partner's already driving off and leaving him behind to face the people he's not entirely sure he's ready to face. He's going to have to wake them, because he doesn't have his key; he doesn't have anything. He's not particularly looking forward to the interaction that's going to follow. And he knows he's not ready; he's tired, he's so tired he just wants to curl up in his car and sleep there, but he doesn't. He paces forward and enters the apartment building, making his way up the stairs and staring at the numbers on the doors as he passes, until he reaches the right one. He checks the doorknob first, just to be sure, but it's locked. He could try and pick the lock, but he doesn't want to make anyone else upset with him tonight. So he takes a breath and knocks.

The door cracks open after a few minutes, and a familiar face peers at him through the small space. Malcolm forces the brightest smile he can muster, but it falls kind of flat. Because his 'buddy' doesn't look happy to see him; there's a sour look on his face, something akin to disappointment. When he opens the door fully, his body blocks the entrance with purpose, no intention of letting Malcolm inside. The man freezes on the spot the moment he meets the cold stare directed at him, because it's an expression he remembers, one he recognizes greatly. And it makes sense. And everything makes sense. And his heart stutters, stops, and takes off _fast._ A dozen scenarios race through his mind, a thousand thoughts. Did he hurt someone? Did he…

"Bright," his buddy greets dryly. "Or should I say Whitly?"

He might as well have reached into Malcolm's chest and squeezed his heart.

"It's late." His buddy - former now, huh? - rubs his eyes and finally opens the door, but Malcolm doesn't feel welcome enough to enter. "Your mom called your phone yesterday. I told her you were in the hospital and you'd call her back when you got out. So-" He gestures toward the rest of the apartment and Malcolm braces himself for what he knows is about to come next, because it always happens, because nobody ever wants him to stay, because it always ends like _this_ , "get your stuff and get out. Rather you not spend any longer here than you need to." With that, he pulls away and trudges off, disappearing down the hall with an audible yawn. Malcolm stays still for a moment, his heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his throat, and there's a sick feeling in his gut that he can feel pulsing at the base of his spine, and everything hurts both physically and emotionally. He feels like he's in another nightmare. This has happened before…

… but he never gets used to it.

Finally, he moves. He shuffles forward, shutting the door behind him and making his way through the dark apartment to his room. Gathering his things isn't hard, he doesn't have much he can't carry. A desk and a dresser, but considering those had been supplied by his roommates, he doesn't think he'd be welcome to take them. So he packs up his clothes in his duffels, takes his blanket and pillows and makes sure there's nothing else left of his so he can give these people what they want and never have to come back and see them again. Then he swipes his phone off of his dresser and turns it over, turning it on to check his messages, his phone calls. There's about ten missed calls from Jessica, eight from Gil and five from Ainsley. He doesn't even want to try to count the text messages - but Jessica's last one, he sees, reads 'Malcolm Whitly if you don't text back in half an hour I will come up there myself', and he winces.

He'll deal with that later, call them all back and let them know he's okay - but he is _not_ telling them about the cardiac arrest thing, because he knows that alone would be enough to make Jessica drag him back to New York herself, and he can't deal with being put on house arrest. Tucking his phone away, he hefts his bags over his shoulders and leaves the room for the last time, and he departs from the apartment without looking back. This is fine; they'd been his friends, he'd thought they'd been his friends, but he's used to his friendships not lasting long. He'll get through it, he'll get over it. In the meantime, he supposes, he _is_ sleeping in his car.

He sleeps in the back and ends up tying himself up with the seatbelts. It resolves in a few bruises when he startles awake in the morning, but once he realizes where he is and that he's safe, he frees himself and climbs into the driver's seat to turn the car off. Everything is wrong, everything is off. He can't do his routine because he's not in the apartment anymore. He can't live in his car, he needs to be able to shower and have a place to do yoga and- right, his meds. He takes those before anything else, swallowing them dry because he doesn't have anything to drink with him either. He's going to have to rent his own place; it feels so _permanent._ And Malcolm doesn't quite understand why permanent feels wrong in this situation, it just does.

He checks a text from his partner, assuring him he's okay to come into work, then calls Jessica. She picks up almost immediately, with a worried, "Malcolm, thank goodness! Are you alright?"

"Mother," he greets as neutrally as he can muster. Too happy, she'll know something's off. Too sad, she'll know something's off. But Malcolm is skilled in schooling his tone into just the right kind of neutral one, one that raises no suspicions, one that means there's no need for her worry or her concern because he's fine, it's fine, and everything's fine. One that means nothing's wrong. Malcolm has become skilled in convincing his mother of that over the phone, if nothing else; part of the reason it's so easy to stay away. "Don't worry, everything's fine. It was just a little scare, nothing serious." He pauses for a moment to think, contemplating. A little bit of the truth peppered in with a lie usually sold his mother. "I don't really know what happened, I was sleeping. I guess one of my friends caught something off in the middle of the night and drove me to the hospital- I mean, you know about my nightmares. Probably just got kind of intense."

His mother sounds relieved; she believes him. "Oh, good. Good. I was so worried when you didn't return my calls, and then when that man answered the phone I'd thought…" She trails off, doesn't finish. Malcolm's lips tug upwards just the slightest bit despite himself, because she doesn't need to finish, because he knows. He understands. And he's so, so not willing to admit to her how many times one of her worst fears had actually become a reality. "Anyway, I'm glad you're alright. When are you coming back to visit? I was thinking of making dinner plans Friday. Your sister's not busy, so perhaps…" She edges off carefully, hopefully, though he hesitates.

Friday… he takes a moment to check the date on his phone. Friday. He'd be okay by Friday. "Yeah, that sounds great," he agrees as he adjusts the phone again. He can practically hear her light up, he can see her face brighten in his head. "Friday. I'll write it down. Listen, I have to go- I've got to be in for work in an hour and I need to get ready, but I'll call you later today, alright?"

A minute of silence passes. "Right. Well, I'll talk to you then, darling."

"Tell Ainsley not to worry," Malcolm adds quickly. "Love you, Mother."

"Oh… as I love you, Malcolm."

He hangs up, presses the phone to his forehead, and breathes in deep. Contemplates for a few moments, thinks it over, and then calls Gil. It doesn't take him long to answer. "Bright!"

He sounds so happy, so relieved, so warm, so grateful. Time and time again it catches Malcolm off guard, and now is one of those times. Especially after the night he'd had. His breath catches for a second, and then leaves him completely, and he has to tilt the phone away while he struggles to catch up with it again. It takes a monumental effort to do so, and a little longer than he would have liked. But when he returns the phone to his ear, he doesn't have to force the quiet warmth simmering through him, doesn't have to fake the happiness he's feeling. Gil just has that kind of effect on him. But he doesn't like the way his voice shakes. "Hey, Gil."

"You alright?" There's a pause and some shuffling, but Gil's voice stays as close and attentive and intent as ever. He's worried, Malcolm knows. "Your mom said you were in the hospital."

"Yeah. It was nothing, just a scare. Don't even remember what happened," Malcolm muses lightly, rolling his tongue between his teeth lightly. He takes in a breath while Gil processes this, and pushes on before the man can ask any other questions. "But, anyway, I'm okay. Seriously, I'm fine. So don't have a heart attack or anything, old man." It's a funny choice of words and he knows it, but he's the only one who can appreciate the little joke, although he's okay with that.

"Old man?" Gil scoffs. "Alright, city boy."

Malcolm can't help but smile, but the moment doesn't last long. His phone is beeping, another call coming in, and as much as he wants to stay on the line and talk to Gil, he knows it's probably his partner, or his boss, and he needs to go in. He has work to do. And working isn't a bad thing - he loves working, he _adores_ working. Of course at this current moment in time he's tired, longing for someone he's close to and honestly really wanting a hug, but he knows better. "I…" He sighs, furrowing his eyebrows and pulling his phone away to see who's beeping in. Sure enough, it's his partner. "Hey, I gotta go. My partner's calling." He lets a soft chuckle escape, despite the hollow feeling in his chest. "I'll, uh… I'll talk to you later or something."

"Okay. Hey," Gil adds quickly before Malcolm can hang up, and he pauses, dragging the phone back to his ear and furrowing his eyebrows slightly. "You call me if you need anything, alright?"

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Malcolm replies, "I will." He won't.

He hangs up, and his heart hurts, and he's homesick.

The phone rings. He answers.

"Got something."

Malcolm buckles himself in and turns the car back on, his keys never having left the ignition. The warmth starts to fill the car again, and he cranks the heat up as high as it can go as he pulls out of his parking space for the last time, looking up at the apartment building. "I'm on my way," he responds, and hangs up, dropping the phone in the passenger seat and driving off.


	2. Chapter 2

The second time it happens, he's at the mercy of a serial killer.

It's the day before Friday, the day before he's supposed to join his family for dinner. Honestly, that's all he can think about as he sits in the wooden chair in some kind of basement with his arms tied behind his back, bound by handcuffs and ropes and zip ties. Basically, there's a lot of things holding him to ensure that he's not getting out, and, he muses, at least this guy is smart. Smart enough to know that this is what it takes to hold him. Honestly, he's kind of pleased by it. The only time he doesn't mind being overestimated is when he's overestimated by a murderer. He shifts his feet against where they, too, are bound to the legs of the chair, and moves his wrists as much as he can manage. If he gets out of here before tomorrow, maybe he can still make it to New York in time for dinner. He just hopes he won't appear too rattled by then.

He's been here for about… eight hours already, give or take, and he's spent a good portion of that time screaming. But the blood has dried and, as much pain as he's in, he has to have faith. He works with the FBI for crying out loud. They've got to know something's up, something's wrong, they've got to figure out where he is soon. They're going to come for him, because that's what they do. They rescue people. And Malcolm, right then, is someone who needs to be rescued - sooner rather than later, because he's pretty sure the murderer is getting bored now.

He narrows his eyes up the stairs, having a direct line of sight to the staircase but being unable to see the door to the basement, when he hears it creak open. The fear he feels in response is tame compared to everything else he's been through, and he refuses to let it consume him. There are times to accept, embrace fear, even - now is not one of those times. He is _not_ going to cower to a serial killer, not with the chances of him dying so high. He is not going to give the man the satisfaction of watching the life fade from his terrified eyes. If he dies, he dies with his head high. But he's not going to die in fear. He doesn't want that to be the last thing he feels. He doesn't want that to be how he leaves this world. He's dying alone; but he's _not_ dying _afraid_.

He breathes, mouth tight around the gag. His heart stutters in his chest. He's fine. _I'm fine._

He watches in silence as the man comes into sight. Thick, blonde hair curls around his face, hiding his eyes, but that's not what draws Malcolm's attention. It's the scalpel in his hand, glinting in the dim light. And he swears his breath catches. Stops. His bravado slips away at once as if it was never there to begin with, and his heart takes off at an alarming rate. This time he can feel it, the pressure building, the pain. He can feel it go from 0 to 100, and he can't stop it. He can only stare as the scalpel gets closer, as the man moves toward him and straddles his lap, as the blade lowers until he can't see it anymore - but he can feel it against his throat. And it's like it's choking him, cutting off his air supply. He can't get a breath in, he can't even let it out. He's _holding_ it, albeit involuntarily. His eyes won't focus. His heart… it's too fast. _It's too fast._

"I heard you were in town," the man whispers, hot breath bathing Malcolm's face, and he screws his eyes shut against it and freezes again. He's shaking, shuddering, really, and he can't stop. He feels like he's going to explode, like his _heart_ is going to explode. "The son of the _Surgeon."_ The blade lifts from his throat, only to caress his cheek, and god help him, Malcolm _whimpers._

"I almost didn't believe it," the man admits. "Until I saw you. You…"

The blade lowers, until it touches his chin, and presses in slightly. He tilts his head back to keep it from sinking in, forcing his eyes open, and the man grins at him. His teeth are all messed up, yellow and deformed and a few even _missing_. He's too close, close enough that Malcolm can smell beer and mariujana and tobacco on him. "You," he croons. "You have your daddy's eyes." It's not the first time he's heard that - he wishes he could say it is, but it's not. But it takes what's left of his composure; he can feel himself crumble, unable to speak, and move, and breathe. He can't do anything, just holding the man's gaze with a silent plea for him to just let him go, for this to be over. It's such a low blow when this happens. When they target him because of his father. "And I'm going to _gouge_ them out of your skull and send them to him as a birthday present."

The scalpel lifts and Malcolm screws his eyes shut, but he knows there's nothing he can do. His heart is racing, racing, _racing_ and he can't breathe and he can't move and he can't fight and he can't talk his way out of this one and he's going to die, he's going to die in pain and alone and he's going to die _afraid_ and he's going to die without being able to see his family again even just one last time and he's going to die so, so far away from his home, and he's going to die as nothing more than the _son of the Surgeon_ , and there is not a single. Damn. Thing. He can do.

A gunshot rings out. Malcolm flinches and forces his eyes open again, shocked; the man stares down at him, wide-eyed with the scalpel only inches from his face - and then falls backwards.

Later, he'll hate himself for the relief he feels. Right now, he can only sob from it. But his heart is still racing, and he can still feel it, and his chest still hurts and it's all still tight and _uncomfortable -_ but his adrenaline is pumping, and despite all of that, when he sees his partner and some members of the SWAT team rushing in to help him free, he manages to keep his eyes wide open, manages to stay conscious but quiet until they take him to the hospital. Then they hook him up to machines, and the moment they clip the oximeter onto his finger, the monitor goes off. The nurses stand still, gaping in open shock. Someone calls for a crash cart. Malcolm barely catches a glimpse, a blur of numbers and some really, _really_ squiggly lines, before his vision goes black. And he still stays sitting up, conscious and _aware_ , until someone forcibly lays him down and starts pushing on his chest. And then, he's unconscious, and the relief is unparalleled.

Of course, it doesn't last. Of _course_ it doesn't.

He wakes up screaming, howling in pain that's not really there, lingering agony from the nightmare he'd woken up from. His body spasms, limbs flailing, arms shooting up to dig the heels of his hands into his eyes. His nails dig in before he can stop himself, clawing at his eyelids, trying to rid himself of the pressure building there. Then two hands snap around his wrists like cuffs - and he _screams_ \- and his arms are pinned against the bed beside his head while he writhes and struggles and screams again, yelling out in pain, and fear, and desperation. He hears a voice, trying to yell over his own screams, but it doesn't break through. Not until he can't scream anymore, until he feels a sharp pain and pressure against his neck.

"Don't- _don't!"_ Another voice yells. "Don't put him out. Look."

There's a pause, and another spark of pain before the pressure is gone, and he feels something inside of him deflate, the tension draining, the terror melting away as he realizes where he is. He recognizes the smell of the hospital first, something that draws out a soft, guttural sound from him, stomach clenching in a mixture of shock and terror. Then he hears the beeping of the monitor beside him, a frantic pace, and he manages to blink his eyes open, still hurting from how he'd clawed at them, in order to turn his head and look toward it. He doesn't pay any attention to the people crowding around him, checking his pupils as they ask him questions. Nothing registers for a long time; he just fixes his eyes on the monitor, blurry and unfocused, then rolls his gaze around the room until he focuses on one of the nurses, a familiar one. She was the one who had taken care of him last time - she had stopped them from sedating him.

His jaw clenches as he swallows, breathing through the pain, the terror. She makes her way over to the side of the bed and reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder. The contact is grounding, more than he thought it could be; it takes a minute, but he hears the beeping from the monitor slow to a steadier pace. It's still high, but given the circumstances, it could be worse. "You're alright, Mr. Bright. You're okay," the nurse soothes. "You went into cardiac arrest again. Do you remember?" She urges, and he blinks. Remember. Does he… yes, he remembers that. He remembers the pressure in his chest, he remembers the murderer, the scalpel, the panic.

"Yeah," he breathes, eyes widening as he tries to sit up. The other nurses try to stop him, but the one beside him shoos them away and wraps his arm around her neck to sit him up herself.

"You're alright, you're stable, but-" There's a pause. Malcolm can't quite focus, but he tries to listen to her even as his gaze drifts around aimlessly from one person to the other. The nurses, reluctantly, begin to disperse, some of them fussing with the monitor and one of them dialing down the morphine drip he's hooked up to. He stares at it for a moment, fingers twitching, but he rolls his eyes back up to the nurse after a moment as she helps him sit up and props the top half of the bed up for him to lean back against. "We want to run a few tests, we think there's s-"

Malcolm shakes his head, both trying to focus and as a denial. No tests. He doesn't have the time or the patience for tests. But he doesn't voice that yet. "What day is it?" He asks instead as he pulls his arm from around her neck, unable to keep himself from hissing in a breath through his teeth when he finally registers the pain that spasms through his stomach when he moves. His hand drifts down instinctively, fingers shoving past the hospital gown he's wearing to locate the source of the pain. It's not internal, he knows that. His _skin_ hurts, flaring up with white-hot agony as his fingers brush against his abdomen, and he glances down briefly and lifts the gown enough to get a better glimpse at the purplish bruises that had formed along his stomach, spreading up to his ribs. There's cuts, too, ranging from thin slices to deep slashes. He remembers the basement, being trapped between the serial killer and the chair as he cut through him with the knife, sawing through skin and slamming the handle of the knife into his stomach just to draw out more screams. He winces, sighs, and lets his hand fall away again.

"Thursday," the nurse begins cautiously. Malcolm snaps his gaze back up at that, then glances away for a second to think. His gaze rolls, trails in search of a window, but he can't find one. So he looks for a clock instead, contemplating what he's going to do as he manages to find the one that's hanging over the door. Thursday, almost midnight. He'll definitely make it to dinner Friday. But that means he needs to get out of here, get his stuff together and just go. He doesn't want to spend another minute in this town right now as it is - so leaving early sounds alright to him.

"I have to go." It's a calm statement, not a question or a request for permission. He ignores the nurse's objections and sets to pulling out the IV in his hand. "I've got dinner plans, with family."

The nurse freezes with her hands inches from his and stares, incredulous. "You're hurt."

"I'm fine." Malcolm flashes her his most convincing smile. He rips the IV out without looking and disconnects himself completely from the monitors and machines, to the collective protest of everyone around him, but he barely pays them any attention as he sits up fully and swings his legs over the side of the bed. That hurts, too. He's pretty sure his thighs had been the unfortunate victim of a few not-so-gentle jabs from that knife, so he makes sure to slow his motions as he moves to get up. They probably stitched him up, better not to disturb those now. "Listen, uh, I know I'm leaving against medical advice and I need to fill out papers for that, right? So you're not held liable if I get sick or die due to early release. So if I could get some of those-" He looks up, offers another smile and tips his head as innocently as he can, "that'd be great."

There are several dubious stares, disbelieving mumbles and discouragements, but Malcolm presses on with his gentle confidence regardless, and they let it drop upon realizing he's just as serious about leaving as he was the first time. As most of the nurses leave, with one of them promising to return with the forms even as she shakes her head in obvious disapproval, the one from before - the one he recognizes had been there the first time - perches on the edge of the bed and regards him with a sense of curiosity, eyes lit with an inquisitive spark on the verge of becoming a flame. He can't help but smile; it tickles him when people look at him like that, like he's a puzzle worth solving, like he's interesting, like he means something. It's rare, it really is. Maybe that's what makes it so amazing in the long run. "You just went into cardiac arrest after being kidnapped and tortured by a serial killer for god knows how long," the nurse begins, though her voice is slow and careful, as if unsure of whether or not she should be saying this. But Malcolm inclines his head toward her in a parody of a nod, and she relaxes, continuing on, "and now you're going to visit your family for dinner as if nothing had happened?"

Malcolm's lips tug further upwards, and he ducks his head as a reflex. "Eight hours," he says first, and her eyebrows lift slightly as she tilts her head at him. "And, yes, that's the plan. My mother would kill me herself if I didn't show up, kidnapped and tortured and cardiac arrest or not." He ducks his head a little further because his smile broadens just a little more as he speaks. He loves Jessica, though it's easy to become irritated with her every now and again. He knows she means well. That she worries. That she loves him. He has no reason to complain, especially not right now, with how much he's longing to be home again. "Anyway, it'll be good…"

"To get away," the nurse finishes knowingly. "Just… take care of yourself."

Malcolm shrugs. Then he grins at her, flicking his gaze up to peer at her through his lashes. "I'll promise you this," he finally begins. "If I end up hospitalized again - because of this-" He feels the needs to clarify that, because he has a feeling he's going to end up hospitalized again for whatever reason, despite how much he tries to avoid it. "I'll let you run all the tests you want." He shifts a little, somewhat uncomfortable at the mention of tests, but he trusts her for the most part. She's not a doctor, but she's here. And she's making things a little easier; so he'll take it. The nurse debates his offer for a moment, tilting her head side to side and giving him a long, contemplating stare, and Malcolm merely smirks back at her before he lifts his gaze to look past her, toward the door, when another nurse enters with the papers clenched firmly in one hand. "Thank you," he chirps as he accepts the forms, and the pen that's offered to him next.

She smiles back at him, though it's strained with her disapproval. There's no real concern in her gaze, though, he can see - curiosity, for sure. He's a puzzle to her, too. "You're welcome."

There's not much to say after that. He fills the forms out, same as last time, and calls his partner to come and get him and bring him a change of clothes. He shows up with less reluctance than the last time, even greets him with a grin and a pat on the shoulder - which _hurts_ , but Malcolm barely winces - before Malcolm slips away to change into the t-shirt and jeans he had brought. He can't help but scowl at himself in the mirror, but it's not a big deal. The tag scratches the back of his neck and the bruises on his arms are visible and the shirt is too freaking _loose_ \- but it's not a big deal. His partner takes him back to his new apartment, and he showers and changes into a suit, and makes sure it covers everything, every bruise, every cut, every mark.

He checks himself out in the mirror, frowns at the scrapes on his jaw, but they're nothing too concerning. Enough that he knows Jessica is going to question him to hell and back, and if he sees Gil, he's going to know immediately… but he can deal with it from Gil. Gil would get it. But he doesn't want to give Jessica another reason to coax him to move back home; homesick as he is, he likes what he does. He likes working for the FBI. He likes solving these cases, catching these criminals, saving these people. And he can't go back home. He can't go back to _him._

Sighing, he buttons the suit jacket in the middle and checks his wrists. Bruised, but he can hide them with the cuffs for the most part. He exhales, slow and careful, and settles a hand over his chest. His heart is beating slow and steady, a comfortable pace. He'll be okay. A quick visit - though, since he's going early, he will have to spend the whole day there… but if he doesn't sleep, he should be alright until he gets back. With a nod, Malcolm checks his reflection again, smooths his hair back and grabs his keys, then heads to his room to pack up a few more things. It's a quick process, there's not much to bring, but he takes his time mulling around the apartment before he finally heads out. It's a four hour drive, and it's only a little past midnight now. He'll be in New York around five… so he needs gas, he needs to check his tires, and he's gonna need to stop at a Sheetz to get himself some coffee if he has any hope of staying awake.

The drive is long, mostly peaceful. He stays in cruise control for the most part until he actually gets close to New York, because he knows damn well how the people there drive… but, still, he remains calm and reminds himself not to get worked up. It's late - early? - but that hardly matters in the big city; traffic is still awful and the people here still need to retake driver's ed and Malcolm realizes, after he gets cut off and blares his horn and fires off a few choice words in the direction of the person who had very nearly made him crash, he still has road rage he needs to work on. When the soft, slow music he's playing fails to set him at ease, he simply turns the radio off altogether and pulls into a random parking lot to collect himself. He tries not to be too hard on himself - he's tired, he's been through quite a lot in the past week - as he slows to a stop and cuts the engine, but he can't shake the tension that still lingers in his muscles. His fingers curl around the wheel, a loose grip, as he leans his forehead against it lightly and sighs.

He stays there until daylight, until he hears birds chirping, until he just knows instinctively that it's time to go. Time to go home. He's a little anxious, admittedly. Of course it's not the first time he's come back to visit in the four years since he'd moved away, but there's still something - there's always something - about being back in the city that just cranks his anxiety up to eleven. Which reminds him, as he checks the time, that he needs to take his meds in an hour. For now, however, it's time to go; and so he puts the car in drive again, breathes in deep as he curls his fingers around the steering wheel as tight as he can this time, and pulls back onto the road.

He remains parked outside for a while even after he arrives at the house, looking up at the building in front of him for a long moment. It's _not_ home, not anymore, but it used to be. Truthfully, he doesn't have many feelings for the place itself. Not negative, but not positive. It's just kind of a grey area for him, and it had been like that ever since he was eleven years old. But it's not the house he cares for, it's the people in it. His mother and his sister. He's here for them.

Drumming his fingers against the wheel, he braces himself and prepares to enter. First, of course, he takes his meds. He's supposed to wait another half hour, but he figures there's no real harm done. He's sure it won't hurt him; maybe throw him off a little, but it's better than having to take his extensive array of pills in front of Jessica and Ainsley. Of course, they _know_ , and it's not exactly a secret or a big deal, and he knows his mother would be the last person to judge him for taking pills, and he knows he needs them, and that they help him, and that it's just medicine and nothing to be ashamed of - but it still feels like something, a part of him, that he doesn't just want to flaunt in front of his family. It just feels like something that shouldn't be spoken of, or brought up among them. It's like… it's like his father. They know it's there, it exists. They don't talk about it. They don't need to talk about it. And they don't need to see it, either.

He takes them quickly and efficiently, far used to the routine by now. It's the only thing that feels normal about today, taking the pills; the familiarity of it puts him at ease for the most part, though not quite enough to completely dislodge the tension in his shoulders. He's also not pleased by the way his hand trembles as he unbuckles himself and climbs out of the car, but that's a given. And, once again, he takes the chance to check his reflection in the side mirror, combing his hair back with his fingers and making sure the more relevant bruises are well-hidden, especially the ones on his wrist, before he breathes in deep, braces himself, and heads up to the house.

He doesn't need to, he knows it, but he rings the doorbell. He can't help but smile to himself, just a little, as he hears the familiar chime from inside. Very few things about his old home make him feel nostalgic in a good way, but the doorbell is one of those things. He's not too sure why.

One of the maids answers the door, and Malcolm brightens at the sight of her. "Luisa."

"Mr. Whitly," Luisa greets, his excitement mirrored in her eyes though her smile remains taut, polite. Malcolm's smile, however, wavers just the slightest bit despite himself, and Luisa is quick to correct herself when she realizes her mistake. He doesn't fault her for it, of course; he'd only recently had it changed, three years ago just when he'd left - intending on a fresh start he didn't really get - but he hadn't been home _that_ much since then. And for someone he'd grown up with, someone who had practically been there to help raise him, he supposes it's difficult to remember. She worked for the Whitlys and _he_ had been a Whitly. He was still a Whitly - though all the maids could attest to the fact that he didn't quite act like one. "I mean, Mr. Bright. I'm-"

"It's alright," Malcolm interrupts, an easy smile playing on his lips. He inclines his head toward her just the slightest bit and watches her relax almost at once. "It's wonderful to see you again."

There's something about this place. Being here. It makes him feel… _like a Whitly._

He doesn't like it.

"And you." Luisa nods at him, her smile warming a little more. "How have you been?"

Malcolm pauses, cracking his mouth open slightly and drinking in a sharp gust of air as he readies himself to respond, but he doesn't get the chance to. His mother's voice reaches him from just down the hall, toward where he knows the dining room is located. "Luisa! Who is it?"

"It's-"

Malcolm raises a hand and Luisa falls silent with a knowing glimmer in her eyes, stepping back to allow him to enter without another word. He steps inside, and she eases past him to shut the door behind him while Malcolm glances downwards to adjust his suit jacket. "I can take that," Luisa whispers as she eases in beside him again, turning to face him and gesturing to his jacket, and Malcolm instinctively tightens his grip on his sleeves as he fusses with the cuffs.

"No need," he murmurs back. "Thank you." Anxiety settles in the pit of his stomach, wriggling about like dozens of snakes in a pit. But he's not unfamiliar with the feeling. He breathes in deep through his nose, letting the air filter into his lungs and holding it there for a moment before letting it all out again at once. He's fine. This is _fine._ He's just home for a visit; it hasn't been that long, has it? He's not that out of touch with his own family. There's nothing to be anxious about. Well… there is, but there _isn't._ The only problem is Malcolm. As long as he keeps his cool and keeps a level head the whole time, then he won't have anything to worry about. It'll be fine.

He makes his way down the hall, pausing in the doorway to the dining room, and drinks in the familiar sights. The table, the chairs, the candles and the decorations and the chandelier. The drink cart where his mother stands, pouring herself a glass of clear whiskey. It's a little early to be drinking, but Malcolm's too used to that to be _too_ concerned. Whiskey is like coffee for his mother; a little pick-me-up in the morning. He smiles to himself at the sight of her, leaning his weight against the doorframe briefly and ducking his head as he watches. He misses her. After a moment, running his tongue over his lips, he eases himself away from the doorframe and makes his way forward, stepping around the table to approach her with a warm smile. "Mother."

Jessica whirls around at once, shock and delight flitting across her face. She sets the glass down and moves forward immediately to embrace him, and he opens his arms to let her. " _Malcolm!"_ She breathes as she coils her arms around him and pulls him closer, clutching him tightly against her. He can't help but wince, clenching his teeth and biting back a grunt as the pain in his stomach flares up again, but he eases into the contact quickly enough. It's warm and familiar, but the anxiety doesn't allow him enough reprieve to completely melt into her arms yet. But even so, he squeezes her lightly before pulling back, allowing her to look him over with a grin. "Oh, you're _early._ I wasn't expecting you until this afternoon. If I'd known you were coming so soon I'd have had the cooks make your favorite breakfast in advance - I suppose they can s-"

"No need for that, Mother," Malcolm cuts her off quickly. He still doesn't know how to break it to her that certain foods don't interact well with the new medicine he's taking. Dinner is already going to be a bitch to get through; he'll deal with breakfast and lunch on his own. "I, uh, already ate. Don't worry." He shakes her hands off his arms, but only to catch her wrists in a gentle grip of his own, and tilts his chin down a little to smile at her. He opens his mouth then, prepared to say something else, but he pauses when she tugs one of her hands away and grabs his chin.

"What happened here?" Her thumb runs over one of the scrapes. He doesn't flinch.

"Nothing," he assures. "Just got myself into some trouble at work. Nothing too serious." What a lie that is, but it's enough truth to quell her concerns. "Actually, that's kinda why I came early. Got kind of sick of DC and figured spending a whole day here might make it a little easier." He moves his face away and reaches up to catch her hand before she can pull back, squeezing. "But enough about that, I don't wanna get into it. I suppose Ainsley will be joining us later?"

Jessica snorts and sighs, but she's smiling. "Ever since she turned eighteen she pretty much spends the least amount of time here she can get away with. She's- well, actually, I'm sure she wants to tell you about that. No matter. Would you like some whiskey, darling?" She asks after a moment, glancing back toward the drink cart with a grin, and Malcolm can't help but laugh.

"I'm alright, thank you." He pauses, debating for a moment. "I might go see Gil and Jackie."

Jessica glances back up at him and cocks her head, a confused expression flitting across her face. But there's no disappointment, so he lets himself relax. "Alright. Oh, do you need someone to drive you? I can have Adolpho-" Malcolm is already shaking his head before she can finish her offer, somewhat amused despite himself. It's been a long time since he'd let another person drive him around. After all, he didn't exactly bring a driver with him to Quantico, and he's not about to pay someone there just to be his personal taxi driver. He likes driving, anyway, despite his road rage. Regardless, he doesn't need anyone to drive him around now. "Oh, alright…" There's a short pause, a moment of contemplation, before Jessica adds, "well, you might as well see if the Arroyos want to come over for dinner, too. I'm sure they've missed you as well."

Despite himself, Malcolm can't help but brighten. All of his family in one place? After so long being away from them, it'll be the highlight of his week. "I'll pass the offer along," he promises, and pulls her into another quick hug before he separates them again, but not before planting a quick goodbye kiss on his mother's cheek. "I'll be back, Mother. Don't tell Ainsley I'm here yet," he adds mischievously, and Jessica huffs out a laugh but nods as he pulls away from her.

"Right. Oh - what happened to your phone?"

Malcolm freezes. "What?"

Jessica knits her eyebrows together, staring at him. "I tried calling you…"

"Oh. Oh! Oh," Malcolm breathes, mind racing rapidly as he struggles to find an excuse. He's got one in there somewhere. "Right. No, I lost it sometime yesterday. Probably fell out of my pocket during a chase - no big deal, you know I can just get another one." Dammit, he's going to have to get another one now. He has no idea where the hell his cell phone is. He hadn't even thought about that when he'd asked to use the hospital phone, or on the way back to New York. And getting new phones is always such a pain in his ass. "Not a big deal," he repeats, smiling. Jessica doesn't look convinced, but after fixing him with a long, intent stare, she simply nods.

He departs with his heart hammering in his chest, and takes a few minutes to compose himself as he reaches the car again. It takes him a moment to buckle himself in with shaking hands, and the doubts plaguing his mind don't let up as he fumbles with his keys and sticks them in the ignition to turn the car on. Suddenly, he's not too sure visiting Gil right now is such a good idea. But he's too far in to back out now. He's already told his mother what he plans on doing, and if it circulates back around that he never went to Gil at all, he'll just raise even more suspicion.

It doesn't stop him from cruising around a bit, though. He checks by the station first, driving by the precinct. He doesn't see Gil's car, and he knows damn well the guy doesn't have a new one. So, after just driving for a while, he eventually loops back around to drive toward the man's house to see if he's there; sure enough, the 1967 Pontiac LeMans is parked in the driveway and Malcolm can't help but smile at the sight of it, oddly giddy at the familiar sight. He'd learned how to drive in that thing; Gil, despite all of Jessica's protests that it was 'pointless', had started teaching him at around… fifteen, insisting that he needed to know how to drive anyway and that if he didn't teach him, he was going to learn everything he needed to know from drivers ed teachers eventually. Jessica had decided pretty quickly that she wanted Gil to teach him, then.

He let the engine stall for a bit as he pulled into the driveway, then cut the car off. His hands toyed with the wheel for a moment, somewhat startled by how fast his heart was beating now and forcing his way through a rush of panic in response. Easing himself through it with deep breaths and a calm, internal mantra of _I'm okay, it's okay_ helped a little as he unbuckled himself and got out, making sure to shut the door as carefully and quietly as he can, but his heart was still going a little too fast for comfort even as he made his way up the driveway to the house. It shouldn't be this hard, this anxiety-inducing, to visit _Gil._ Sure, his mother and Ainsley, he could get behind that, he could at least make sense of the panic that churned in his gut at the thought of visiting them so soon after something like this had happened - but this was Gil he was seeing now, the closest thing he had to a father since Martin had been arrested. This shouldn't be _hard._ This shouldn't be as _scary_ as it is. But Malcolm almost thinks he'd rather take the murderer and his scalpel back.

He shakes himself and knocks, rapping his knuckles against the door gently three times before remembering to check his wrists and adjusts his cuffs again. He barely finishes up covering the bruises by the time the door opens, and barely has time to look up and offer a bright smile.

It drops, admittedly, the moment he sees Gil - only to return full force, much more genuine.

"Bright," Gil exclaims, warmly, happily, as he steps forward. Malcolm doesn't hesitate to meet him halfway, the grin on his face becoming painful simply from how wide it was getting now. The second he's in Gil's arms, he feels the warmth and security and _safety_ he had missed before even with Jessica, and it's enough, in that second, to make everything feel okay again. He stills for a second, frozen from the amount of security he feels in the simple gesture. It's friendly, it's fatherly, it's familiar and it's _soft_ and it's everything Malcolm needs right now. So he sinks forward before Gil can let go, digging his fingers into the back of the man's jacket and burying his face into his shoulder. Gil doesn't stumble or stagger, though he does grunt slightly in surprise before simply tightening his grip around Malcolm in response. "Hey, alright. I got you."

He's happy, relieved, thankful by how long Gil's willing to just stand there and hold him. Especially since it takes him a little while to compose himself enough to feel comfortable with pulling away and letting the man get a better look at him. Still, he's smiling, and he knows it's genuine because of the giddiness in his chest and the way he can't force it back even when his face starts hurting. He ducks his head, breathing in deep, and looks up again when Gil's hand clasps around the back of his neck, offering a light squeeze. "Hey, you doin' alright?" Joy is replaced rapidly with concern, as Gil searches his gaze for something Malcolm knows he'll find.

"I…" He teeters for a moment, hating the uncertainty and doubt that plagues his mind. Lying to Gil at this point is useless, and he doesn't really want to anyway, but the instinctive excuses that rise to the front of his mind concern him. Maybe he's gotten used to this whole 'I'm fine' thing. But Gil stares at him, eyebrows furrowed, expression shadowed with worry, and Malcolm sighs. "It's… it's been a long week," he finally offers, his smile waning into a grimace. "I'm _okay_ , but…" He trails off, sighs, and looks away. "I got… a _little_ in over my head with a case yesterday."

"A little?" Gil doesn't sound convinced. Malcolm frowns, not responding. "Malcolm."

Malcolm barely inclines his head in Gil's direction in response. First name, he knows it's serious. Gil isn't going to accept any half-answers. "Ended up in a serial killer's basement. Again." He tilts his head up and offers Gil a smile that's only really half-forced despite himself, and despite the man's less-than-pleased, _very_ concerned and _very_ pissed off expression. "But! Like I said, I'm okay. My partner got to us in time." He pauses again, only to suck in a breath and calm down the now somewhat frantic, rapid thudding of his heart against his chest. He needs to calm down. It's just _Gil_. "And it wouldn't be the first time, am I right? What's one more traumatic experience?"

"One more reason for a psychotic break," Gil sighs through his teeth. Malcolm doesn't get the chance to reassure him that that's not gonna happen before he's drawn into another tight hug.

"I'm okay." Malcolm squeezes him lightly, as if that itself can reinforce his statement.

Gil squeezes him back, but he doesn't respond until he pulls away again. This time, his hand clasps over Malcolm's shoulder in a gentle but steady grip, a cautious touch, and Malcolm understands; he doesn't know where he's hurt at, doesn't know where to be careful, so he's being careful with everything. Maybe later Malcolm will list the extent of his injuries, but considering his shoulders and arms are relatively unscathed, it doesn't need to be brought up yet. "Alright. You're staying for a bit?" Gil checks, and Malcolm nods; a smile eases itself across the other man's features, warm and welcoming. "Well, come in. Jackie just made coffee."

"Don't mind if I do," Malcolm replies, always happy to accept the offer for coffee. Gil steps back and opens the door further for him, and Malcolm steps inside and shuts it behind him. "Thank you," he adds suddenly, not really sure why. Gil shares the sentiment, offering him an odd look. But he smiles, settling his hand over Malcolm's shoulder again to offer another gentle squeeze.

"You hungry, kid?"

"I could eat." Malcolm pauses, and grins, following him to the kitchen. "Oh, that reminds me…"


	3. Chapter 3

Malcolm ended up spending about half of the day with Gil and Jackie. They accepted the invitation to dinner happily, but none of them had made any move to leave yet; Jackie had fixed him up a few things after being sure to question him thoroughly about what he could stomach - and after practically crushing the poor guy in the tightest hug she could manage - and they'd all sat down to eat while Malcolm told them about the case they'd just wrapped up. He did his best to leave out some of the worst details of what had happened once he'd gotten taken, but he did end up showing off the bruises on his wrists and the scars around his abdomen when Gil gently but worriedly requested to see how bad the damage was. He wasn't any less worried by the time Malcolm finished showing them his wounds, but all the reassurance in the world couldn't fix that. He was like a worried father - and it tickled Malcolm enough to make him leave it alone.

Oh, and he ends up drinking about three cups of coffee while he's there - Gil had objected after one, since he's not really supposed to have much caffeine with his anxiety as high as it was (and honestly with the heart problems he was having, even he started to wonder if it was wise), but they hadn't quite stopped him from grabbing more cups, so he continued. He's just started his third when Jessica calls Gil's phone and requests to speak to him; the man doesn't say a word, doesn't even make a sound, but the expression on his face as he holds the phone out to Malcolm perfectly relays the _it's your mother_ as if he'd said it aloud. He takes it with a smile.

"Mother," he greets.

"Hello, darling! Just wondering when you plan on coming back." There's a pause and some shuffling, and Jessica's voice is lower when she speaks next. "Your sister just got here."

"I won't be long," Malcolm promises, eyeing the cup of coffee and lifting it to take another sip, but Gil suddenly reaches out to pry it from his grip and replaces it with a bottle of water instead. Malcolm sighs, but he nods and smiles at Gil regardless in thanks as he twists the cap off with his thumb and index finger to take a sip. He pauses for a moment, thinking, then adds, with a smile at the two from across the table, "oh, and Gil and Jackie said they can come for dinner."

Jackie smiles back at him with nothing but warmth in her gaze. She and Gil had been together for about eight years now, married for six. He remembers her being there when he would bunk with Gil sometimes - he'd started spending the night when he was around fourteen, when the night terrors became too much for Jessica to handle on top of everything else, and Malcolm had all but insisted regardless because Ainsley tended to wake up screaming not long after he did. Gil was more than happy to take him in, setting him up in the living room. When he was seventeen, and Jackie began dating Gil only a few months after they'd met, she started staying over for the night and the three of them would bunker down and watch movies past midnight. She'd quickly become a mother figure in Malcolm's life, while his own mother alternated between pulling away and digging her claws back in at the last second. He didn't have any resentment for Jessica - he understood, the weight on her shoulders was insurmountable - but Jackie filled a lot of the holes he hadn't even fully realized he had. And Gil patched up a lot of the holes Martin had left in his wake, himself. They're just as much his family as Jessica and Ainsley are - and more so than his own father had been. They took care of him. They _love_ him.

"Oh," Jessica responds, and while she doesn't quite sound _excited_ , per se, she also doesn't sound disappointed or upset - at least, not enough so that Malcolm feels as if she didn't really want them to come. "Well, good, I've already told the cooks to make enough for five. We're having chicken parmesan - yours and Ainsley's favorite when you were little, remember?"

Malcolm does remember. He can't help but smile, though his eyebrows furrow as he runs through the list of foods he knows don't interact well with his meds. Funnily enough, chicken parmesan doesn't seem to be on that list, though to be fair, he doesn't think he's had it since he was young - long before he was prescribed the extensive medicines he was taking now. "I remember." He doesn't remember how it tastes. He doesn't remember how strong it might be. He doesn't remember if it'll be enough to make his stomach curl, or if maybe, miraculously, it'll be one of the few things he can eat - but he doesn't have high hopes on that particular front. There's not a lot of things he can stomach; bland foods, mostly, things without any real taste. Eating is a necessity; he can't really remember the last time he ate anything he actually liked.

"Good! Hurry up," his mother chides, breaking him from his thoughts. He hums a quiet assent and places the bottle carefully on the table, spinning it. "Your sister already knows something's up and I'm not sure how long I can keep her at bay. I suppose it's the r- ah, ah! Almost slipped. Nevermind that, Malcolm. Just hurry home," Jessica sing-songs, and Malcolm chuckles, smiles, ducks his head as if he can hide it - as if there's a reason to do so in the first place. "Love you!"

"And I, you, Mother," Malcolm murmurs. "I'll be home soon."

He hangs up and holds the phone out, then takes the time to fold his cuffs back down over the bruises on his wrist, buttoning his suit jacket up in the middle again. The expression on Gil's face is understanding but disapproving at the same time, though it's Jackie who speaks. "Mal…"

Malcolm inclines his head toward her and smiles, chiding and reassuring. "I'm fine."

Jackie raises an eyebrow in response. "'Fine' is the word you use when you are not, in fact, fine," she chides. "And I know you don't want to worry her. But, Malcolm, you should tell her," she urges. "This isn't something you should have to hide. Not from anyone. Especially your _mother_." A moment of silence follows as Malcolm contemplates those words, peering at Jackie through his lashes and silently weighing his options. A quick glance in Gil's direction is all it takes to tip them off, and Jackie squashes his silent, internal fears with a quick, "oh, come now. You know our mouths are shut." She glances at Gil to affirm that, and, albeit with a heavy sigh, the man nods slightly in agreement so Jackie will go on. "This just- it's not something you…"

"Should have to hide," Malcolm echoes. "I know." He pauses, spins the bottle again. "But," he begins, and pauses again, because he doesn't really know where he's going with that at all.

"No buts," Jackie warns.

"No buts," Malcolm agrees. Then, just to be a little shit, " _however-_ "

Jackie laughs, a low and sweet sound. Malcolm can't help but grin, focusing on the table for a moment. He misses them, he really does. Gil and Jackie are like family - hell, they _are_ family - and he just misses being here. In this house. In New York in general. Surrounded by people who actually give a damn about him. Who don't roll their eyes and scoff and grunt and groan and make him feel like he's nothing more than a minor inconvenience, something they have to _accommodate_ , something they have to _live with._ He can never quite shake the constant feeling in his chest, the ache that reminds him he's nothing but a burden to everyone around him. But with Gil and Jackie - and Jessica and Ainsley (on rarer occasions) - that feeling is a little less prominent - and it's certainly not any _worse_. "Alright. I'll let it go. I know how _stubborn_ you are."

Malcolm draws in a gasp, feigning an offended expression back at her across the table until he can't hold it anymore, huffing out a laugh of his own and shaking his head. "You're not wrong," he concedes. "And… I know. I know it's not something I should have to hide, or feel like I can't talk about it. And I don't feel like I can't talk about it," he defends quickly. "I'm talking about it just fine with you two. It's just- she doesn't need anymore stress, and I don't need her giving me anymore reasons to move back to New York. It's all just…" He sighs, ducking his head again.

"Convoluted," Jackie murmurs, sympathetic. She reaches out and rests her hand over Malcolm's, stilling it against the bottle. His hand twitches, practically sinking into the warmth of her own. It's been awhile since he's had any physical affection like this; it never feels quite normal to him. More like a treat, the little bits he gets every now and again, like some kind of reward, except he can never figure out what he's being rewarded for. Maybe if he could, he'd get it a little more often. He can't stop thinking about it, feeling her fingers curl against his hand to offer a light squeeze; what did he do right with them? What is he doing wrong with everyone else? Why is it that only these few, select people seem to like him - and why… why did he feel the need to distance himself from them? To apply to Quantico, to go to DC, to join the FBI? Why would he put all these walls between him and the family, the people that actually care about him - why assume, even for a moment, that anybody else would want him? Why… "Malcolm?"

… did he actually think that he deserved this?

Malcolm blinks. Pauses, swallows. Breathes. "Sorry," he breathes before he can stop himself. He's not sorry. Why did he say that? He swallows again, ignoring the look Gil and Jackie share in response, confusion and concern flickering across their faces. "I mean, I…" He wavers off a little with a heavy sigh, equal parts frustration and embarrassment, and just barely manages to tilt his lips upwards into a hesitant smile. "I'm," he starts, stops, and starts over again. Over, and over, and over, and _over, and over-_ "I- I'm- I'm fine. I'm okay." He tugs his hand back slightly, and Jackie lets him go, but he can see the worry spreading rapidly across her features as he scoots his chair back to stand up. Gil pushes himself up almost immediately, looking concerned.

It's hard to tell what he deserves now. It's so, so drastically different from DC, from what he's grown used to in only four years - and, god, if those differences don't send him reeling…

He can't breathe. Shit, he can't _breathe._

"Mal?" Jackie calls out, but she sounds too far away. "Gil, he's having a panic attack."

"I know. I know," Gil assures her. Malcolm can't move, can't breathe, can't think. Gil makes his way over to him, rests his hand over the back of his neck and squeezes to get his attention. It's not very effective - Malcolm's eyes dart up toward him, but he can't focus on his face for long - but he still catches the smile he's offered, meant to be warm and reassuring, but it only serves to remind Malcolm that he doesn't belong here anymore. He doesn't feel like he belongs here. He doesn't feel like he belongs anywhere - but this, _this_ , he doesn't understand, he doesn't get it, he doesn't know why this all feels wrong, and twisted, and- "Why don't we go outside, huh? Get some fresh air?" Gil offers. Malcolm can't respond with anything more than a nod he's not even sure is perceptible, but Gil is already guiding him toward the doorway with his hand still cupping the back of his neck, and he hears Jackie's chair creak slightly as she moves to follow.

Being outside doesn't help much. The cold air steals what little air he had left fueling his lungs. His heart is racing, and that's scarier than anything - he doesn't want to have an attack now, right now, in front of them. They don't know. They don't know about the cardiac arrest and he doesn't want them to know, and he's also just really, really fucking sick of being hospitalized.

He feels Jackie shuffle up to his other side, and Gil's hand hasn't left the back of his neck. He tries to focus on that, the touch, the warmth radiating from the both of them. Even though the contact and the affection and what it represented had been what caused him to spiral.

"You're alright, sunshine," Jackie soothes, resting a hand on his shoulder. She squeezes, tight enough to bring him back to the present long enough to breathe in a sharp gust of air. Gil seems to notice, because he tightens his grip around the back of Malcolm's neck in response, until the only thing he can focus on is their hands. The erratic pounding of his heart fades into the background for the moment, struggling and searching for focus through the contact they're giving him, and he manages to steal another breath before he feels his throat close up again. He wishes he can say for certain what brought this on - he knows the contact had something to do with it, but he was honestly horrified by the thoughts that had raged through his mind in those few short seconds after Jackie had rested her hand over his. Every instinct is itching at him to figure it out. He knows he can figure it out. It's easy with other people, and this is _him_ \- he knows for a fact what he's feeling, what he's thinking. The problem is _wanting_ to figure it out - the profiler in him feels like a caged, rabid animal - but the rest of him doesn't quite want to yet.

His hands shift, moving on their own accord. One reaches up to grasp the wrist of the hand Gil has on the back of his neck, and the other squeezes tight against his chest, curling into a fist against the fabric as his fingers twitch and shudder. It's the start of a tremor he knows he can't stop, and he knows he either has to calm down or get the hell out of there. He chooses both.

"I've got to go," he murmurs, startlingly calm. "I haven't seen Ainsley yet."

He knows they want to protest. He knows they can't - that last sentence has them.

Jackie squeezes his shoulder and pulls back, a worried smile written across her face. She's more trusting than Gil, who visibly hesitates for a moment longer before he pulls away as well. "You'll be alright, Bright?" The man demands, stepping forward to search his gaze. Every part of Malcolm wants to look away, to shy away, and making eye contact hurts something deep inside of him, to his very core - almost like it's burning away at his soul - but he still does it, forcing himself not to immediately look away the moment his eyes meet his father figure's.

"I'll be alright," he affirms, letting the corners of his lips curve upwards into a smile. He's so shaky right now that he almost doubts his own ability to drive, but he pushes forward anyway. "I'll see the two of you at dinner." He turns to smile at Jackie, doesn't dare pull either of them into a hug because he knows they'll be able to feel how bad he's trembling, and pulls away so that he can start off toward his car again. Their gazes burn into his back, the back of his head - he can feel them both staring and he wishes they wouldn't, but he knows that's too much to ask. They're worried about him. They're worried about him, and for good reason, but he wishes they don't have to worry. He wishes that, just once, when he says he's fine, that he could mean it.

He gets in the car and just sits there for a moment. He knows he can't wait too long, can't let them see him hesitate too much, but he's smart enough to know the tremors need to subside a _lot_ more before he's ready to drive again. Once the shaking dissipates into something more of a buzz, he finally fishes his keys out and slides them into the ignition, starting the engine. He looks up, briefly, to see Gil and Jackie still outside, watching him. The scene is almost surreal, the sight of them together, Gil with one arm wrapped around Jackie's waist while the woman leans back against him and watches the car as Malcolm slowly backs out of the driveway. It's not the last time he'll see them - obviously, he'll see them at dinner - but it almost feels like it. He frowns to himself, barely remembers to check the mirrors, and pulls out completely onto the road. He drives off without looking back again, because he knows his gaze will linger if he does.

He checks the time and almost winces. It's only afternoon. Still a long way to go until dinner. He still hasn't slept and he can definitely use some more coffee. He's gonna have to end up pulling over before he goes back to DC and getting a quick nap in the car, that won't bode well for him. He's certainly not about to risk staying the night in the mansion, or with Jackie and Gil. He could always go back to his old apartment Jessica had bought for him, back when he lived in the city. He's sure it's been relatively untouched. Probably still even has his restraints and everything. He still has the key - a lot of his stuff is in that apartment. His weapons, most of which he didn't bring to Quantico with him because… there's having weapons, and there's just being obsessed with sharp objects, and he knows as many things as he has, it'll definitely look like obsession.

Still, even as he contemplates this, there's a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach that he can't shake. Coming for the day to spend some time with everyone, staying for dinner, that was one thing. Malcolm doesn't know if he's ready to spend the night in his old city again. He doesn't know if he's ready to let himself relax here enough again to feel _comfortable_ enough to sleep.

Doesn't know what that would mean for him when he goes back to DC. He can't let himself slip. Can't let himself start thinking of this as his home again. This is over. It's supposed to be over.

And yet, he can't stay away. He knows he can't stay away - he still has family here. He still has connections. As much as he tries to run from, there's always something to run right back to. Everything inside of him, every part, hums and buzzes and echoes with desperation and _pain_ at the simple realization, the realization that comes with knowing he'll never be able to truly escape. Deep down, of course, he already knows this - but it hadn't truly registered until now. And as much as he loves them, he doesn't think he's ever wished so strongly that he didn't. If he could just stop - stop caring so much, stop _needing_ them, maybe he'd be able to get away. He hates that he wants to. But what he hates even more is that he doesn't want to _enough._

He's not quite calm by the time he reaches the house again, but he doesn't take the time to sit outside and let the engine stall while he collects himself this time. He gets out, adjusting the cuffs and his collar and making sure, once again, that none of his wounds are visible, before he traipses up to the door. He almost wishes he'd brought a thicker suit jacket with him - it's so _cold_ outside. Easing out a sigh through his teeth, the young man falters to a stop and straightens up. He doesn't bother knocking this time, just opens the door and ducks right inside without a word.

He finds his mother and Ainsley in the living room. Jessica has retreated to the couch and Ainsley to one of the chairs, one leg crossed over the other as she scrolls through her phone. She glances up, briefly, when Malcolm steps through the doorway. Then her gaze falls downwards again, and Malcolm barely manages a smirk before his sister's head snaps up.

She gapes at him, openly, then jumps to her feet. "Malcolm!"

"Ains," Malcolm greets her warmly, stepping forward. Ainsley wastes no time in rushing toward him, and he meets her with outstretched arms, barely suppressing a flinch as she crashes into him and throws her arms around him. She squeezes at his ribs, pressing up right against his stomach, and if he didn't have such a high tolerance for pain, he might have doubled over. Instead, he snaps his arms back around her, careful not to _hurt_ , and digs his fingers as lightly into the back of her shirt as he can manage without pressing too hard against her spine. Her grip on him is much more painful. But Malcolm doesn't give her any time to see what's wrong.

"What are you doing here?" Ainsley demands as she pulls back, and Malcolm only pauses for a second - a quick, fleeting moment in which he wonders why she's more curious than happy to see him - but then Ainsley twists around to look at their mother. "You knew!" It's an accusation. Once again, not a happy one. For a moment, Malcolm himself is too startled to say anything, though Jessica only sighs at her youngest child and offers her a somewhat reproachful look.

"Forgive me, I thought you were familiar with the concept of a _surprise_."

Ainsley still looks about ready to throw hands. Malcolm shakes his head. "It was my idea."

Ainsley's gaze darts back to him. Something must have happened between them, an argument, because once Ainsley registers the fact that Jessica wasn't responsible for her being left in the dark about his arrival, all of his younger sister's irritation seems to melt away. Malcolm smiles at her, but he can't shake the unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach. "I bet I'm the last to know," she challenges, and behind the humor in her tone and the good-natured smirk on her face, Malcolm _sees_ it. He _sees_ the spark behind her eyes. He _sees_ the way her eyelashes flutter. He sees the way her bottom lip twitches, the way her mouth attempts to curve into a frown. The smile she gives him is forced. The humor, that light in her eyes - it's fake. She's not amused. She's not happy. It's an expression he recognizes, one he's grown accustomed to recognizing, analyzing. It's an expression that makes every part of his body tingle with unadulterated _terror._ Because it's not just an expression. It's his _father's_ expression. It's _Martin Whitly's_ expression.

His hand trembles. He doesn't dare try to move it out of sight, knowing that will draw attention to it. He swallows back his fear, the bile that had risen to the back of his throat. He swallows back the uneasiness, the unsettled feeling in his gut. He swallows it, shoves it down, represses it. He would never allow himself to jump into any kind of conclusion with his sister. He would never allow himself to do to her what people had done to him his whole life. He _knows_ her better than that. "Well, I saved the best for last," he retorts, concluding with an affectionate hair-ruffle that immediately has Ainsley screeching about as loud as she can and ducking away from his hand. "I'm here for dinner. Just came a little early." Inclining his head, he offers another smile, softer. "Aaaaand _I_ heard you also have something to tell me. I guess we're even on surprises."

Delight enters Ainsley's gaze and Malcolm's fear and discomfort slips away as if it never existed. "Ah! You didn't tell him!" She exclaims, glancing back at Jessica, but _now_ she's happy.

Jessica scoffs, but chuckles and makes her way back to her feet. The glass in her hand is empty, but instead of walking back to the drink cart, she heads to the doorway. "Of course not," she calls over her shoulder. "See? I keep my children's secrets." With that, she walks out. Malcolm raises his eyebrows as he listens to her high heels clicking away, retreating down the hall, each step heavy, each stride purposeful. A smile tugs at his lips, and he ducks his head.

"Okay!" Grinning, Ainsley takes hold of the flaps of his suit jacket and tugs him forward, and he lowers his gaze back down to her with a smile, allowing her to drag him toward the couch. But he doesn't sit yet, and she makes no attempt to force him, just holds him there. "Guess what?"

He inclines his head, reminds himself not to guess. _Guessing ruins it._

Ainsley doesn't mind, she couldn't seem happier. "I got into the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism." She squeals, letting go to cover her mouth. "I'm gonna be a journalist!"

Malcolm stays still for a moment, silent, contemplating that. He's happy, of course he is. He's not surprised; Ainsley is smart enough and talented enough to have gotten in without an issue. But her excitement is infectious; he can't keep himself from mirroring it. "That's great, Ains!"

"I know." Ainsley giggles, dropping her hands to grin at him. "You're not the only Whitly going places. I'll be right up there with you." She smirks, and Malcolm - although he's never doubted that for a second - huffs out nothing more than a quiet chuckle in response. "Buuuuut anyway!" She reaches for him again, fingers curling into the folds of his jacket, and gives him a light jostle. He's surprised she doesn't catch the surprised flinch. "Mother is upset now because with me going off to school and you in DC, nobody's gonna be around to pay attention to her anymore." She rolls her eyes, and Malcolm understands immediately. The argument. He's a bit ashamed of himself for not having put it together himself, but he says nothing. "But like, that's not my fault. I'm not supposed to just stick around babysitting her and do _nothing_ with my life. Besides." She pauses, inclining her head toward the drink cart. "She's got all the company she needs."

"Take it easy on her, Ains," Malcolm warns her, albeit gently, understandingly. "This is hard for her too. I mean, both of her kids getting up and moving on, and she still feels trapped…"

"But that's not _my_ fault," Ainsley protests. "So I'm not running from my past, or avoiding my future and drinking my sorrows away. I shouldn't have to be trapped just because she is. She could do something. She chooses not to." A scowl tugs at her lips, briefly, as she throws a frustrated look toward the doorway. Malcolm takes the chance to close his eyes and breathe in, steadying himself. Dinner's definitely going to be a blast. He hadn't even considered that Jessica and Ainsley might not be on good terms, even though he should have. He knows Ainsley loves their mother, and Jessica loves them - but they very rarely got along. Not that Malcolm hadn't had his own fair share of fights with their mother, but arguing with Jessica…

… well, she doesn't make it _hard_. Malcolm learned quickly that it's easy to just let Jessica have what she wants, to win the arguments in the end - Ainsley, it seems, isn't good at giving up that kind of control. Malcolm, however, to do what he does, has practically mastered it by now. Being willing to surrender, to give up control of a situation, is one of the main reasons he's still _alive_. And he understands it's not an easy thing for people to do. Especially not someone like Ainsley.

He makes his own point, to himself, by relenting. He smiles, patiently, and nods - but he changes the subject as he reaches up to gently brush Ainsley's hands away from his suit. "Well," he begins after a moment, "what matters right now is _you_ , Ains. And this is a _big deal._ Mother will come around. She always does," he reminds her, and watches her eyes flicker as she debates that. She looks a little uncertain about giving up the argument, and he prods again, gentler, "what you need to be worrying about right now is school, right? So worry about that. You'll kick ass, I know it. And who knows? Maybe this will help her move forward a little, too."

He has her. Ainsley relaxes, sighs, and Malcolm allows himself a small flicker of pride. "Yeah." Ainsley sighs again, and shakes her head. Then she offers him a smile, and he's a little taken aback by how tired she suddenly looks. Still, there's nothing but warmth in her gaze. "Alright, enough about me, I guess. How about you? How's the FBI been treating you recently?"

Malcolm wants to laugh. He really wants to laugh. Instead, he shrugs. "It's pretty good."

"Liar," Ainsley says immediately, and Malcolm arches his eyebrows at her. Ainsley crosses her arms in response and gives him a _look_ , the look that means _spill._ "Come on. Tell your sister."

Malcolm lets out a quiet 'hm' sound and smirks briefly. Then he shrugs again and sweeps his gaze around the room, mostly to avoid making eye contact. "Honestly, I've been pretty good. This week, I guess, not so good, but not awful. I'm not unhappy," he adds, and a part of him wonders who he's trying to convince - himself or them. He glances back down to see Ainsley just staring at him, taking him in, and manages to force another smile in her direction. He doesn't think this one comes off as convincing. "On the bright side, I haven't been fired yet."

"Yet," Ainsley echoes.

"I don't have high hopes." Malcolm offers a one-shouldered shrug. "They don't like me."

It takes a moment, but Ainsley's expression shifts. Understanding, and then anger. "Assholes."

" _Language."_ Malcolm gasps, feigning an offended look. Ainsley's anger immediately dissolves, into something akin to amusement. "My _god,_ Ainsley, how could you? A Whitly, _swearing-"_

"Oh, like _you_ never swear," Ainsley mocks, and offers a little shove to punctuate her sentence. Unfortunately, her hands catch him where he's sore, and he can't bite back a gasp in time as he stumbles back toward the couch. He doesn't fall, barely catches himself, and the only reason he doesn't rush to reassure her when she jumps and jerks back away from him with a horrified expression on her face is because he's too busy doubling over and holding his stomach, wincing at the new, refreshed sensation of agony that flushes through his entire system. Through the haze of pain, he realizes he might have a broken rib that the doctors had missed. Bruises and cuts shouldn't hurt this bad. "Are you okay?" Ainsley demands, shuffling forward.

Malcolm clenches his teeth and swallows. No way to explain that. He holds himself for a moment, a hand pressed flat against the spot where it hurts, and forces himself to look up at her. The smile on his face barely falls short of a grimace. "Yeah. No, I'm okay. Just a little…" He huffs out a sigh and winces, hissing in a breath through his teeth at another sharp flare of pain. "Mm. _Dammit._ Just a little hurt." He scrunches his face up, forcing himself to straighten up.

Ainsley grabs him before he can topple backwards, only to shove him back. He can't bite back a yelp in time, grabbing for her arm, but he lands on the couch _mostly_ painlessly. He doesn't have much time to register anything else before she's suddenly ripping open his suit jacket, and then unbuttoning the shirt, and he grabs onto her wrist too late, just as she rips _that_ open as well. The gasp she offers is soft, breathless, shocked, but to Malcolm, it's the most deafening sound ever. "Malcolm," she gasps again. " _Malcolm."_

Confusion and concern leads him to glance down, but the bruises and scars are no worse than they were earlier. He doesn't understand her reaction - has she never seen him injured before?

"You need to go to a _hospital,"_ Ainsley hisses. "What happened?"

"I did," Malcolm insists, finally getting up the nerve to bat her hands away and shove his shirt shut again, buttoning it back up frantically with shaking fingers and throwing a panicked look toward the doorway. "It was just a little trouble at work, Ains. I got blindsided by-" He stops, hesitates, and hisses out a sigh through his teeth, glancing back up at her. "A serial killer."

Ainsley frowns, glancing toward the doorway. "You haven't told her."

"No," Malcolm replies, trying to keep his voice level. "And I'd rather her not find out."

Ainsley glares as he adjusts his suit jacket, buttoning it in the center. When he raises a hand to fix his sleeves, she grabs his wrist - eliciting a half-pained, half-startled grunt - and yanks his arm toward her to shove the cuff down. The bruises there only make her gasp again, but now she just sounds and looks enraged. "This is- what is this, rope burn? Or handcuffs?" She demands, and Malcolm winces a little at the laughter that threatens to bubble in his chest. It's not funny, it's really not. "You were held _captive_ somewhere- how long? How long were you-"

"Not long," Malcolm insists. "Keep your voice-"

"How long?"

Malcolm pauses. Frowns. Kicks himself - internally. "Eight hours."

Ainsley squeezes her eyes shut, looking pained. The rest of Malcolm's irritation dissolves, despite himself; he shifts and pulls her onto the couch with him, beside him, but he keeps his arms wrapped around her - and, multitasking, tugs his cuff right back down over the bruises. "I'm okay. Honestly. It's nothing I haven't been through before." He hates the admission because she wouldn't _know_ that, and the incredulous, horrified look she shoots him is only a reminder. "Just got a little banged up. I'm not," he sighs, closing his eyes for a moment, remembers to breathe. He just needs to breathe. God, this wasn't supposed to happen today. Gil, and Jackie, and now Ainsley. He really, really doesn't want to deal with Jessica. "You can't tell Mother."

Ainsley scoffs. But she relents after a moment, because she gets it, and sinks sideways into his arms. He shuts his eyes again, this time in relief. "Fine. But only if you tell me about this stuff."

"I will," Malcolm murmurs. He won't. "Hey. Gil and Jackie are coming for dinner."

Ainsley offers nothing more than a hum, blinks her eyes open again. She glances at him, the concern gone now, and pulls away, and Malcolm lets his arm stretch over the back of the couch and offers her the most innocent smile he can muster. "And you're spending the night here," Ainsley finally adds, and the smile wavers, vanishes. He opens his mouth, and she narrows her eyes slightly in response. "Either willingly or because _Mother_ has to chain you to your old bed."

"Ains…"

She smirks. She has him, and she knows it. He knows she knows it. "That's the deal." After a moment of contemplation, without losing the smirk, she adds, "hey, I'll even stay here, too. You, me and Mom, just like old times. Our very own Whitly slumber party." She chuckles, amused.

Whitly slumber party. Malcolm grits his teeth and sighs, then relents, with a silent nod. Once again, he knows when to give up control. And Ainsley knows when and how to grab for it.

He hates himself, in those brief seconds of silence, when he thinks, _like father, like daughter._


	4. Chapter 4

For lunch, Malcolm and Jessica let Ainsley drag them out to her favorite restaurant, and Malcolm manages to dodge sly comments and questions from his sister - and subtle threats - by announcing to his mother that he plans on staying the night at the mansion. Jessica's delight is only doubled when Ainsley chimes in, feigning surprise and then 'deciding' to stay the night as well, insisting on quality family time. Malcolm pokes at his food, puts on a polite smile and tries not to grimace too noticeably as they start making breakfast plans. He wonders if leaving early in the morning would be too high of a risk. Knowing Ainsley, she'd probably want to see him when she wakes up, and he doesn't want to do anything to make her angry enough to let anything slip to Jessica. So he stays silent, poking at the food he'd ordered. Bland, tasteless food he's only eaten half of so far, but he'd be lying if he said he planned on clearing his plate.

Most of the time, he finds himself staring at the wine his mother's sipping at. She's tipsy and he knows it, and despite himself, he can't help but feel somewhat concerned. He'd gotten used to his mother's drinking habits. Concern had morphed into frustration, and then indifference. It was a coping mechanism, and it wasn't like she got _drunk_ and did anything stupid when she did. He'd stopped worrying about her for a while there, but he doesn't think he'd seen her today without a glass of some kind of alcohol in her hand. And with Ainsley's words in his head…

He brings it up, subtly, when Ainsley gets up to use the restroom. He's not afraid of being obvious about his concern, but he doesn't want to push hard enough to make her shut down. With Jessica, caution is key. "So, Ains told me she got into the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism," he comments, letting his eyes stray toward the glass. Jessica just sighs.

"Mm, yes. Your dear little sister's going to be a journalist." A plastic smile crosses his mother's face, one that doesn't reach her eyes, one that's not even supposed to come off as genuine.

"She also told me…" Malcolm inclines his head, just a slightest bit, toward the glass, but he lifts his gaze back to his mother after a moment. He watches her pause, eyes darting down toward the wine, and offers a small smile when she looks back up at him. "You're feeling abandoned."

To his surprise, Jessica laughs at him. "Oh, is that what she thinks?"

He furrows his eyebrows, tilting his head. Jessica chuckles again, a mirthless, hollow sound, and lifts the glass back to her lips to take a sip. She takes her time before she continues on. "Malcolm," she begins, sighing. "I never expected either of you to not want to _do_ anything. Of course I wanted you to get out there, _do_ something with your lives." She waves a hand as she speaks, mostly gesturing in the direction of the bathroom. Malcolm frowns a little, resisting the urge to cross his arms over the table and silently curling his hands into fists overtop of it instead. "But I wanted more for you two. More than chasing murderers and stories for the _news_."

"Mother," Malcolm starts, winces at the way he can hear the exasperation in his voice, the sigh that doesn't escape. They've been through this too many times. The topic just feels stale now, not worth wasting his breath on. But he knows his mother doesn't feel that way, so he swallows and tries again. "Mother." Gentler, more understanding. Good. "We're doing what we _want_."

Jessica shakes her head, sighing. "And I can't fathom what you find _fulfilling_ in…"

"I know." Malcolm has to physically swallow back a sigh this time, ignoring the bitter taste that lingers in his mouth as he does. Jessica has made her distaste over his choice in career as clear as she possibly can. He doesn't like knowing that she'll be giving Ainsley the same treatment; Malcolm would never say it aloud, would never express how much it hurts that his mother doesn't support what they want, but it does. He just hopes it doesn't drive Ainsley away. He had many reasons for leaving New York - this was one of them. "But we do find it fulfilling. You don't have to be happy for her. But for her sake…" He tilts his head toward her again, giving her a knowing look. "Could you at least pretend that you are? She's so excited about all of this."

Jessica shifts, doesn't respond, but Malcolm knows he has her. He can see her expression shift, an ever-so-subtle flicker, a sheepish look in her eyes as she downs the rest of the wine. "Alright," she finally mumbles, begrudgingly. But she does smile at him, and there's still warmth in her eyes, and Malcolm allows the rest of the tension that had coiled up in him to diminish. The conversation doesn't go any further and Malcolm is glad for it, because Ainsley returns laughing about how weird the hand soap in the bathroom smells. It's not long before Jessica's snickering, and Malcolm, satisfied, finally sits back and relaxes as the tension between them melts away.

* * *

Dinner goes _surprisingly_ well.

Jackie and Jessica don't really talk; they greet each other with smiles on their faces, Jackie's full of warmth and his mother just barely hiding a grimace. If Gil notices, like Malcolm, he says nothing. They both do their best to keep the conversations light and keep everyone happy and agreeable, and even Ainsley chimes in when things start getting a little frosty on Jessica's side. The looks she sends toward Jackie across the table makes it clear that she's on their mother's side and Malcolm understands that, but he's just happy she's still trying to diminish the tension instead of adding to it. But for the most part, his mother barely offers any snide remarks and even laughs a few times at some of the things Gil and Jackie say, and not in a rude way, so Malcolm, when it's all over, counts it as a success, and prays not to have to go through it again.

As for the chicken parmesan, he's pleased that it doesn't make him sick, but he still only clears half of his plate. He knows better than to push his limits when it comes to food; he can't risk it.

When it's time for Jackie and Gil to leave, Malcolm can't deny he's a little jealous. Once the idea of staying the night in his old house had really set in, he came to realize how much he hated the mere thought of it. He couldn't explain it, the burning feeling in his gut, dread mixed with loathing - but it was there, and it was strong, and it made him sick. Still, he only smiles as he meets them at the door, offering both of them a quick hug while Jessica calls out a quick 'goodbye' and ushers the maids off to fix up his old room. When he pulls away from Gil, the man clasps a hand over the back of his neck and squeezes like he usually does, and Malcolm relaxes again.

"Come see us tomorrow before you leave," Gil tells him with a smile. "You gonna be okay?"

"Of course." Malcolm smiles as reassuringly as he can muster, leaning into the touch until Gil pulls away. Then he turns to Jackie, who grins at him, teeth and all, as she pulls him into a hug. He gives himself a moment to bask in the warmth, the comfort, as he buries his face into Jackie's shoulder and inhales as much of her scent as he can. He's tired and… confused, and he's got so many conflicting feelings about his old city. He doesn't know whether he's homesick or just sick in general, sick of everything. He thought coming back here might make him feel better, but in the long run it had just made him feel even worse. Swallowing back a rush of nausea that he knows damn well isn't from the food, he finally pulls back and forces a smile at both of them, one he doesn't think is as convincing as he preferred. "I'll see you guys tomorrow."

"Let us know if you need anything."

"I will." He won't.

They leave, and he retreats to the living room with Ainsley. She greets him with a smirk, and he smiles tiredly back at her as he plops back onto the couch beside her and fixes his attention on the TV. He's tired, so he stays silent even when Jessica joins them, pretending to focus on whatever's playing on the television until it's time to go to bed, and he retreats to his old room.

He sits for a moment, checking over his old restraints. Of course, he checks to make sure the cuffs still fit his wrists - it's been several years, after all, since he last had to use them. It disturbs him, to an extent, how easily he's able to slip them on now. They fit him better than they used to.

When Jessica comes in with a cup of hot chocolate, Malcolm hasn't stripped from the suit yet to fasten the restraints; he'd been expecting her to enter already, and he wasn't about to show off his bruises by accident. Still, he greets her with a smile as he takes the cup, and tries not to bring it too close to his face yet. He doesn't want to smell it, doesn't want to drink it. He loves it, he does, but cocoa has a special place in his heart - a place reserved for Martin Whitly, a place reserved for staying up late learning all about the median nerve, a place reserved for forehead kisses goodnight, _a place reserved for a basement, for a box stashed away, for the girl inside-_

-and he can't go to that place anymore. He can't go back. He promised himself he wouldn't.

Still, he clutches the cup a little tighter, remembering seemingly endless nights snuggled up next to his father on the couch while Martin reads through his medical textbooks aloud with a smile, like a bedtime story. He wants to lower his head, drink in the familiar, sweet scent and lose himself in the memories, but he knows better. Instead he smiles at his mother, all dimples and sleepiness, and Jessica takes his face in her hands and presses a soft kiss to his forehead.

"Goodnight, my love," she whispers, and Malcolm is in another place. Another place, and another time. It tugs at his heartstrings - hell, it damn near severs them. "And sweet dreams."

"Goodnight," Malcolm murmurs around the lump in his throat.

She scoots the lamp on the nightstand a little closer, just within the cuffs' reach so he can turn it off, before she leaves and shuts the light off, making sure to crack the door as she goes. Malcolm opens his mouth to call after her about a mouth guard, but he bites his tongue after a moment. He looks down at the cup for a second, breath hitching on an exhale, and slowly lifts it up. For a moment, the smell is the only thing he can register. Then the voices hit him, images. Still, he holds it up to his face, breathing through the memories colored in grey, somehow unattainable and yet at the same time, in an oddly twisted, convoluted way, all that he has.

He doesn't dare let the liquid touch his lips, his tongue. The taste will carry him away to somewhere else entirely. For the moment, he forces his way past the bad memories in a futile effort to reach the good ones, and his hand trembles around the cup as he remembers the feeling of his father's fuzzy, warm sweaters as he curls up against him at night, the warmth of his arms as Martin carries him to his bed, the unconditional adoration in his eyes, and his voice. Everything inside of him threatens to break apart at once. Love, and grief, and anger… such a horrible mix of emotions, an awful combination. One of them alone can break you to pieces - but all three of them, all at once, Malcolm knows, could very well grind him completely into dust.

But for the moment, just for tonight, he wants to remember the father that loved him.

When he finally moves to put the cup down on the nightstand, his hands aren't shaking anymore. But he's unsteady, clouded in misery and sadness and pain and fury he doesn't think he'll ever be able to let go of. He sinks back without turning the lamp off, stares at the ceiling. Doesn't bother changing, doesn't want to risk Jessica seeing the bruises while he's asleep, but he makes sure to fasten the cuffs around his wrists before he lays back completely to sleep.

He slips, falls into a slumber, but the pain doesn't fade. The anger. The longing.

Sometimes Malcolm doesn't think it ever will.

_Sometimes he's not even sure he wants it to._

* * *

He wakes drenched in sweat, with a shout he cuts off by biting his tongue immediately once he regains enough consciousness to realize what's going on. He's trembling - not just his hands now, every part of his body, and he can't stop. He clenches his fists reflexively in the cuffs and strains for a second, arching his back up off of the bed before letting himself fall again. His chest hurts with every breath and he can feel his heart beating against his ribs, and the last time he felt like this he was in a basement with a serial killer straddling his lap holding a scalpel to his throat, threatening to carve his eyes out. His knuckles whiten and _crack_ as he clenches his fists around the sheets beneath him, struggling to breathe in through his nose and focus again.

He's fine, he'll be fine. It's not going to happen again. It was a fluke - a fluke that, admittedly, yes, did happen twice and that's a little strange - but all he needs to do is calm down, breathe, regulate his heart rate and remember that whatever he may feel about this house, he's _safe_.

It's easier said than done, but he manages. It takes him a moment, fumbling with the cuffs, to be able to undo the latch on one of them with nothing more than trembling fingers. Getting the second one off is easier, but he doesn't move from the bed yet. Instead he simply lays there and listens; but the house is silent, and still. Daylight streams in through the window, though, the crack of dawn. He's not sure whether to expect his mother to be awake or not, but he has no doubt in his mind that Ainsley is. It's Saturday, yes, but his sister has always been an early bird. And that's fine with him; he'll get up, stay with them for a little while before offering his goodbyes, and then he'll stop by Gil and Jackie's and let them know that he's going back to DC. He takes a moment to change, once more mourning his typical morning routine, then heads out.

Sure enough, Ainsley is sitting at the table when Malcolm enters the dining room with the cup of cocoa in his hands. "Morning." He offers his sister a smile as he passes on his way to the kitchen, though Ainsley barely looks up from her phone to greet him with anything more than a distracted hum. He can't help but chuckle as he pours the cocoa out and rinses the cup out carefully, then makes sure to spray the sink clean of any evidence before he retreats back to the dining room. This time Ainsley greets him, all smiles and innocence, her phone face-down now.

"Morning." His sister steeples her fingers under her chin and regards him curiously as Malcolm pulls his chair out with his foot, sitting down and folding his hands in his lap. "How'd you sleep?"

He scrutinizes her carefully before he answers. He loves his little sister, but he doesn't trust her enough to lie to her face when he knows damn well she could have heard him yell out when he woke up. "I… slept," he finally concedes, and Ainsley inclines her head without a flicker of surprise. If anything, the expression on her face is equally understanding and disappointed. "However," he adds, removing his hands from his lap to fold them over the table. "I'm fine."

Ainsley doesn't answer. Instead, she sighs, and then reaches forward to grab the silver coffee pot between them, pouring some into one of the empty mugs and passing it to him. He takes it with a grin, tilting his head toward his sister in thanks, and scoots himself back a little bit to make his way back to the kitchen. He doesn't drink his coffee without a lot of milk and sugar.

"Are you going back to DC today?" Ainsley asks when he returns, and he hesitates.

"That's the plan." He tries not to sound as dejected as he feels, knowing Ainsley would jump at the chance to talk him into staying longer. He doesn't want to stay. He wants to stay even less than he wants to go back to DC. It's kind of scary, how he feels about the world right now. Like there's not a place for him in it. Like he's holding onto _nothing._ He'll just go back to DC, back to his apartment, back to being alone. He sighs, shakes his head, and changes the subject. "I'll call you. Once I get a new phone. I lost it when…" He raises a hand, pointedly, and turns to his cup.

"You'll be careful, right?" Ainsley finally asks after a moment.

Malcolm pours a little milk into the cup and stirs without looking, staring at the table. "I will."

He won't.

* * *

He's surprised by how Jessica bites her tongue when he says he's going back, how he can see every objection and protest flash across her face before it all vanishes, locked away, masked. He's impressed, he's shocked, but he's glad, because he doesn't think he can handle her objections right now. But he makes sure to hold onto her a little longer when he hugs them both goodbye, and nestles his face into the crook of her neck with a soft sigh, nuzzling into her hair like he used to do when he was a child. She braces a hand on the back of his neck, presses a kiss to his cheek he knows is going to leave a lipstick mark, and murmurs, "stay safe, my love."

Malcolm squeezes her lightly and pulls back, smiling despite the pain tugging at his heart. Knows he won't be able to visit again for a while, simply because it hurts too much to _leave._

"I will," he promises her. He won't.

* * *

Gil and Jackie invite him inside, offer him coffee. He can't resist.

He stays for a few minutes and only a few minutes, smiling and laughing with them. Gil slips away suddenly, a sparkle in his eyes and Malcolm knows he's going to return with something, a surprise, a gift, and he can't stifle the excitement in time - Gil's surprises are the best ones. Jackie sits across from him, passing him the milk without him needing to ask, and Malcolm grins at her as he twists the cap off to pour it. "Good luck back in DC. You call if you need anything."

"I will." Malcolm beams up at her, stirring the coffee. He won't.

She gives him a knowing look, opens her mouth. "Mal-"

Gil returns with a handful of the round, green hard candies Malcolm used to eat as a kid, and he barely stops himself from shooting up out of his seat to grab them. Gil laughs, dumping most of them in his hand and saving two for himself and Jackie, and Malcolm unwraps one immediately. Jackie laughs, wrapping an arm around Gil as she opens her own and pops it into her mouth.

The conversation is forgotten.

* * *

"Keep us updated, okay?" Gil tells him as he walks Malcolm to his car. "We wanna know what's going on with you. If anything happens, if you're okay, just… you know. And you're always welcome here. So things get rough over there, you get your ass over here." The man is content, stomach warm with coffee and filled with candy, and the smile he gives Gil is genuine, pure.

The answer isn't. "I will." He won't.

Gil hugs him, clasps a hand over the back of his neck and squeezes. He melts into his arms like butter, warm and snug in his father figure's arms, and Gil rumbles out a quiet chuckle as he wraps his arms around him and squeezes lightly. "I missed you, kid."

"I missed you too," Malcolm murmurs.

He lingers, pulls back with a more strained smile, but it's still genuine. Still warm.

Gil grins at him as he opens the door to his car and gets in, tapping the side of the car lightly to get Malcolm to look back up at him once he gets settled. "Don't be a stranger, city boy."

"I won't."

He will.


End file.
